


All Along, Not So Strong (without these open arms)

by Cuppa_Char



Series: Runaway [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e12 Lunar Ellipse, F/M, Gen, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Panic Attack, Stilinski Family Feels, dealing with the aftermath of drowning yourself in a bath of ice, stiles & the sheriff talk, stiles is worse off than scott and allison, tag on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 19:21:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuppa_Char/pseuds/Cuppa_Char
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He should be able to breathe easier, right? His dad knows everything now. He doesn’t have to lie anymore. His dad’s alive. They’re all fucking alive. It’s one big epic win for them. He should be able to breathe easier but he’s not because suddenly his chest tightens, the trees spinning around him, and he blinks more blood into his eye, his vision tinting red.</p><p>And it’s all crashing in on him at once. Every piece of bad shit that’s happened over the last year. Everything that’s happened between his mom and now. Every fucking bad memory he’s ever had. And he can’t get past that he’d nearly lost his dad. That he nearly didn’t have him and how easily that might have happened. That he could have lost both of them and then it would just have been him and nothing else. </p><p>----<br/>Missing scene/tag on to Lunar Ellipse because I can't resist emotionally and psychologically torturing Stiles some more...</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Along, Not So Strong (without these open arms)

**Author's Note:**

> Missing scene/tag on to Lunar Ellipse.  
> Title comes from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs 'Runaway'. Mentions of/quotes from S2E12 Master Plan.
> 
> Part of a new series (there will be two further fics in this series - the second one being, possibly, multi-chaptered).

_~ All Along, Not So Strong (without these open arms) ~_

 

_No sense of time_

_Like you to stay_

_Want to keep you inside_

_All along_

_Not so strong without these open arms_

_Hold on tight_

**_(Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Runaway)_ **

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles blinks blood from his eye.

He stares at his dad with wide eyes.

His dad mumbles something about aluminium bats and then Stiles is throwing himself – literally flinging himself at his dad and squeezing with all the strength he has got, which actually, at this precise moment, was not a lot. But he still manages to squeeze and suck in a tightly controlled breath.

His dad chuckles, huffing a surprised breath out, before fiercely hugging him back and clapping him across the shoulder.

His dad is _alive_. Scott’s mom and Allison’s dad are _alive_. Isaac and Allison look relatively unscathed, too. It’s all good, although he still has no idea how the hell he managed to get from the jeep to _here_ at the _exact_ right moment, while possibly being concussed and a glaringly obvious bloody gash to his temple.

His vision blurs and he wipes at his eyes.

His dad’s eyes settle on the gash and narrow, flashing with concern, a tentative hand going up to press at the side of his head.

Stiles tenses, flinching away from the touch. “I’m fine,” he tells his dad. His own hand touches lightly at the side of his head, fingers coming away bloody from where it was still sluggishly bleeding. “But we need to get out of here. I don’t know how long the bat will keep standing.”

Stiles ends up calling Scott, telling him everyone was okay and asking him to bring a ladder.

Everyone laughs, high and relieved, an air of _it’s over_ rolling through with it.

Stiles even manages a chuckle over the words, a small twitch of the lips but he’s not laughing. No, he feels too detached for that. Numb and detached. He’s probably in shock… he has, after all, just crashed his beloved jeep and obtained a head injury. And fucking drowned himself not long before that.

He feels like he’s gone from one drama to another over the last few months, from one tragedy to the next, in a state of hyper _fucking_ vigilance since it all started, control slowly slipping away, especially after his dad was taken. Expecting the worse.

Always expecting the worse.

But, despite all of this, he still manages to drag his sorry ass out to the Nementon and save the day. Now that he’s used the last of his energy, startling to in the jeep and running through the forest, breaths catching wildly in his chest and then that _instinctive_ relieved ‘you’re alive moment’ in the folds of his desperation, he’s spent. All he wants to do is lay down and sleep, or at least crawl into a ball and cry, maybe a little bit of both.

His dad’s suddenly shaking him and nodding upwards.

Shit. He must have zoned out and lost some time, his dad must have noticed too if the concerned look on his face is anything to go by, because Scott is looming down at them with a huge smile on his face.

It’s infectious and Stiles finds himself grinning back. Because it’s epic and they’ve won.

Scott doesn’t waste any time and drops a chain down through the hole. It’s not a ladder but it’s probably the safer choice, Stiles thinks, considering how unstable the splintered wood and crumbling dirt looks.

His dad jostles him forward and Stiles thinks he shouldn’t be the one who gets to leave first. He must protest verbally because his dad pushes him forward again, more firmly and tells him to “Quit it.” At first he thinks it’s because Stiles is more obviously injured than anyone else (although he can still see the smudged stain, dry now, from where his dad had been stabbed) but then he realises, eyes blinking slowly, that it’s more to do with the natural progression of _order._ There’s not much room, and the rapidly disintegrating root cellar didn’t open up until it reached Isaac, where Allison, Scott’s mom and Chris were all situated. No one else would be able to get out until both Stiles and his dad did.

Stiles nods and lets his dad turn him around, twisting the chain around his arm and trying to wrap his hand around it. He goes compliantly because – you know, werewolf skills and strength – and he’s more than a little dizzy and fuzzy around the edges.

“Thanks, buddy…” Stiles mumbles, Scott grabbing him easily when his feet scramble to find purchase on solid ground, and clapping Scott on the shoulder. He doesn’t bother giving Scott a chance to reply, or even offer to help, just continues walking, legs feeling shaky beneath him until he gets into an open clearing a little further ahead.

He turns and sees Scott pluck his dad from the hole. His dad staggers slightly before finding his feet and chuckling slightly before giving Scott a smaller version of the hug he’d given Stiles. Stiles watches as his dad pats himself down, puffs of dust billowing off him, before turning back to help Scott drag out the rest, even though Scott could probably manage on handed.

He would probably say _‘fucking show-off’_ but he doesn’t because Scott’s not making a big deal out of it and is actually letting his dad help and there’s the slight problem that he can’t actually find his breath.

He should be able to breathe easier, right? His dad knows everything now. He doesn’t have to lie anymore. His dad’s alive. They’re all fucking alive. It’s one big epic win for them. He _should_ be able to breathe easier but he’s not because suddenly his chest tightens, the trees spinning around him, and he blinks more blood into his eye, his vision tinting red.

And it’s all crashing in on him at once. Every piece of bad shit that’s happened over the last year. Everything that’s happened between his mom and now. Every fucking bad memory he’s ever had. And he can’t get past that he’d nearly lost his dad. That he nearly didn’t have him and how easily that might have happened. That he could have lost _both_ of them and then it would just have been him and nothing else. He loves Scott, he really does, but he’s not sure it would have been enough, or even for how long, considering constant running and fighting for your lives and teeth and death were their life now.

His dad still has his back to him, helping Isaac pull Allison and her father out (because Scott’s mom has Scott in her own embrace and seemingly won’t let go), so he doesn’t see that Stiles is obviously finding it hard to breathe.

He wants to collapse to the floor and cry. To scream at his dad to look at him but he can hardly even get a breath out, let alone much else.

“Dad…” he manages to wheeze, tears prickling his eyes.

_I can’t breathe_

_I can’t breathe_

_I can’t…_

_… breathe…_

He feels himself sway dangerously, his dad snapping his head back in response.

“Stiles?” It sounds muffled in his ears.

And then the ground is disappearing beneath his feet, the natural light from the moon dimming, senses dulling.

“D… ad?” another staggered gasp, the feel of rough leafs and dirt against his fingers as he curls his fingers against it. “I can’t… I… can’t…”

  
And then nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

“Dad…”

John turns his head sharply at the distinctive wheeze that accompanies it.

Stiles is standing in the clearing in front of him, swaying, plainly finding it hard to catch his breath. There’s an obvious tremor rippling through his frame, hands shaking as one finds it across his chest, fingers pressing into his shirt, splaying wide in panic.

“Stiles?”

He recognises the first signs of a panic attack when he sees one but before he can even react Stiles suddenly stumbles off the side before abruptly falling hard to his knees.

“D… ad?” Stiles gasps, strangled in his throat.

He’s there in seconds, grabbing his son by the shoulders and shaking him roughly, murmuring _he’s ok_ and _just breath, breathe, Stiles. C’mon kid, you can do it._ He doesn’t have a clue if Stiles knows he’s there, if he can even hear his instructions over the loudness of his wheezing and strangled hyperventilating, or if his response is purely out of fear, fingers curling and digging into the dusty ground of leafs and twigs. “I can’t… I… can’t … brea…”

Stiles suddenly stops talking, listing to the side, eyes rolling upwards and goes boneless in his arms.

“Stiles?” John asks, shaking him, patting at his face. Stiles doesn’t even twitch in response. “Melissa!” he yells, only feeling bad for a second or so for breaking up the intimate reunion between mother and son, before looking back down at Stiles. “Something’s wrong with him.”

Melissa pulls away from Scott immediately, eyes widening over his shoulder, and shoves him away. Scott’s already half on the move though, eyes flashing red briefly, and manages to get to them before his mother even stumbles to a stop.

“What happened?” Scott barks at him.

“He was having some kind of panic attack,” John says, jostling Stiles in his arms, eyes lingering on the blood streaked down the side of his face, terrified his son was having some type of aneurism. “But he’s got the obvious head wound… I don’t know if…”

“I saw his Jeep on the way here,” Scott informs him, worriedly, eyes flashing to the wound. “Looks like he wrapped it around a tree.”

“Stiles? Honey, can you open your eyes for me, sweetheart…?” Melissa asks, feeling for a pulse against his wrist.

Stiles remains unresponsive, head hanging loosely in John’s hands. It’s clear now that the tremors from before were not just from the panic attack because they’re still here now, rippling violently up and down his frame.

“C’mon, kiddo,” John gently implores of his son. “Just open your eyes.”

Stiles doesn’t respond to either of them and John presses his hand against the side of his face, lifting his head and turning it so that he could look at his face, feeling how cold he feels. Stiles is pale on a good day but today he’s almost porcelain white, like there was no blood in his peripheries at all.

“He’s cold,” John states, worried that Stiles might be going into shock. He touches Stiles closest hand with his own. It feels even colder than his face, like he was touching ice. “In fact he’s fucking freezing. Why does he feel so fucking cold?” he doesn’t know why he turns accusing eyes on Scott but does it all the same.

“He kind took an ice bath,” Scott admits after nervously glancing away. He takes a breath and then nods at Allison who’s hovering somewhere behind him. “It wasn’t just him. Me and Allison did the same.” He doesn’t elaborate further on why they all took a dip in baths of ice, just nods at him once before turning his attention back to Stiles. “I’ll tell you everything once we’ve got Stiles sorted out.”

John narrows his eyes briefly before glancing over his shoulder at Allison, wondering why they both look better off than his son, and then remembers that Scott is a werewolf now – vaguely registering Stiles rambled explanation and the fact that they somehow heal faster and run hot and by the look of Allison, wrapped up in a winter coat, scarf and a woolly hat, she too was once as cold as Stiles is now. And Stiles? Stiles is just wearing a shirt with a thin plaid shirt over that.

“Alright,” John grumbles, running his hand up inside Stiles sleeve and rubbing profusely, hoping the friction would help bring him around, and offering what little heat he could give to warm him up in the process. Scott sees what he’s doing and lifts Stiles other arm, sliding his own hand up and rubbing at the exposed skin. He sees black vines appear on Scott’s own arm and he blinks in surprise, not knowing what to say. Scott sees him looking and smiles reassuringly, as if to say _it’s ok, it’s cool._ He makes a mental note to ask Stiles about that later. He turns and glances at Melissa, who’s looking a little befuddled, hair sticking out crazily, worrying her lip with her teeth. “Melissa?”

“His pulse is steady enough,” she says, relinquishing his wrist, allowing Scott to continue whatever he’s doing. By the look on her face, she too has never seen her son do this, and appears a bit mesmerised by it. “His breathings evened out, too. I’d say concussion, but it’s a bit hard to identify anything else out here. I think we should probably get him checked out at the hospital. You too, John. That cut probably needs cleaning out. You might even need stitches.”

“No hospital…” Stiles suddenly says, surprising them all.

“Stiles?” It’s actually Allison who speaks first, sounding small, and timid, eyes wet with unshed tears. Chris wraps an arm around her and tucks her close into his side. “Are you ok?”

“S’rall good…” Stiles slurs, sluggishly rolling his head so that it tips against John’s chest, which was probably his intention from the start.

“You’re getting checked out,” John firmly tells him.

“FBI,” Stiles mutters into his chest. It comes out in static bursts, as though it hurts too much to talk in full sentences. “At the hospital.”

“Stiles is right,” Scott tells them. He’s still leaching something from Stiles, rubbing at his arm. “They were crawling all over the place. It’s not safe to go there,” he hesitates a second before glancing at Melissa. “Dad was there as well. I didn’t see him, but Stiles did.”

“I… oh…” Melissa stumbles to find her words, frowning. “We still need to get everyone checked out though.”

“I’ll call Deaton,” Scott tells them determinedly, releasing Stiles arm. Stiles protests sleepily, making a disgruntled groan.

“The vet?” John asks suspiciously, although he doesn’t know why. It stands to figure that, after saving Deaton’s life throughout all of this freaking nightmare of a situation,  Scott’s boss would know more about this then he’d let on so far.

“Yes, the vet,” is Scott’s only reply. He stands and steps away, digging his phone out.

“I’m not letting someone who treats dogs for a living anywhere near my son,” John grouses prissily.

“Not _just_ a vet,” Stiles huffs at him. “Pay attention, dad.”

There’s a muffled conversation on the phone, that John can’t catch, and by the time Scott’s returned, Isaac has, surprisingly, shucked out of his jacket and helped him and Melissa push Stiles shaking body into it.

He sees Scott and Isaac exchange a look, it’s not hard to see that there’s some unspoken tension between the two, before Scott nods and mutters “Thank you”. He pockets the phone and turns his attention back to John. “The clinic is a bit full now thanks to the twins, so Deaton’s going to meet us at your place. If he thinks he needs to get checked out then we’ll have to chance it and go,” he pauses and looks him right in the eye. “I promise, Sheriff, that I won’t let anything happen to him.”

John looks wordlessly down at Stiles (the trembling has subsided and he looks less glassy then he did before, still listing to one side) and thinks he already has.

He hears the other part of the plan, which he’s not entirely too keen about, because it involves Derek and a Camaro.

 

* * *

 

Things between the ruins of the root cellar and home are a little bit fuzzy but Stiles manages to remember the important parts.

Like Derek appearing out of nowhere and helping his dad bundle him in the back of the Camaro, only Stiles won’t let his dad go – it’s laughable really (although surprisingly no one does and Derek doesn’t even sneer at the pitiful state he finds him in) – so his dad has no choice but to squeeze into the back seat with him, which must have been both awkward and uncomfortable. Stiles is pretty much out of it though, so he doesn’t really care.

There’s only room for one more person though and Scott vetoes everyone, making his mom take it. She protests at first, until Scott gives profound knowledge a try and reminds everyone that if anyone (meaning Stiles or his dad) were injured enough, Deaton would need Melissa there to help. Stiles feels a manic giggle in his chest as hears Scott talk, impressed at his sudden authority, murmuring ‘true alpha’ over and over until has dad nudges him.

Stiles falls to a stop, remembering his dad was there, despite the way his hand was twisted into his shirt, and twists tighter. He whispers “I’m sorry” over and over again, ignoring his dad’s worried enquiries or the way Derek’s eyes watch him in the mirror.

 

* * *

 

Stiles comes to on a couch.

His own couch to be precise. The hardly used throw, which was normally hanging over the back of it, was now draped over him, steadily warming him and tapering the tremors off. There’s a blurry-shaped figure at the end of the couch, which his feet was conveniently sat on. He blinks until the blurry shape focuses into a Scott-shape. It’s only then, sometime later with a few blinks, that he realises Scott has his feet in his lap.

He looks half asleep, head hanging back, mouth slightly open and staring up at the ceiling. He startles suddenly, causing Stiles to jump and blink wide eyes at him, immediately turning to look at him.

“Hey,” he says, hand wrapping around an ankle, and grinning widely.

Stiles drops his head onto something nice and plushy and grunts in reply until he realises Scott’s mom _is_ the nice and plushy and his head is pillowed against her.

He blinks owlishly up at her.

“Sleeping beauty is awake,” she says, smiling down at him, while running soft fingers through his hair.

It’s nice and comforting and he considers just closing his eyes and going right back to sleep only he’s suddenly aware that there’s actually more than just the three of them in the room. A lot more.

He turns a sluggish head and sees Deaton sat at the table, leafing through some kind of journal, Lydia and Isaac hovering close by. Even Derek is skulking in the corner of the room.

“Ah, Stiles…” Deaton says, alerted to the fact that Stiles was now in fact awake. “Glad to see you’re awake.”

“What’s the diagnosis doc?” he asks, voice still slurring. He’s fucking exhausted. All he wants to do is sleep for a week. And then some.

“Exhaustion. Mild hypothermia – that’s to be expected, really…” Deaton says, raising from the table and nearing the couch. Stiles squints up at him because his head _really_ fucking hurts and at this angle it was only making it worse. “Concussion, although your eyes are equal and reactive…”

“So, I’m ok then, right…?” Stiles dismisses, waving him off and lowering his head back down against Melissa’s lap. He closes his eyes, rolling his head slightly into the fold of the couch.

“You’re lucky, Stiles,” Deaton says, sighing. “It’s not the same. And your dad and Melissa are under strict orders to take you to the hospital if your symptoms get worse.”

Stiles keeps his eyes closed and huffs out a laugh instead.

“I still think he should go to the hospital,” Lydia announces.

Stiles rolls his head back, challenging her with eyes alone.

“He said I’m _fine_ ,” he growls at her.

“You’re exhausted. You’ve made yourself _ill,_ ” she announces to all of the room to hear, folding her arms across her chest angrily.  “You’re concussed and you just had, from what I’ve heard, a panic attack. The second one in less than 24 hours.”

“What?” Scott asks, flashing inquisitive eyes at Lydia and concerned ones at Stiles. “What?”

“It was nothing,” Stiles tries to reassure him, patting his arm. He looks back at Lydia and is so busy eye-balling her that he doesn’t notice his dad standing, worriedly, in the doorway of the kitchen.

“It wasn’t nothing,” Lydia snaps at him. “It was absolutely terrifying.”

He looks at her angrily, ready to protest, but she’s looking back down at him with such an anguished face that he ends up dropping heavily back down, bones heavy. He sighs loudly and covers his face with a shaking hand. “I’m fine…” he starts and then shakes his head with a laugh. “So, I’m exhausted, ok? What did you expect? My dad was _taken._ I didn’t sleep. I don’t think I even ate. And then we did that whole sacrificial thing… but you know what, I’m ok. I’m alive. Dad’s alive. So is Mrs McCall and Allison’s dad…”

“Oh, Stiles…” Melissa murmurs. She continues to run her fingers through his hair – Stiles wants to tell her stop now (but he won’t because it’s still nice and he hasn’t got enough people in his life who _would_ do it) because it’s probably unclean and dusty from the dirt of the root cellar and matted with blood. She looks up towards the kitchen with watery eyes but when Stiles diverts his eyes from her to look there’s no one there. “Promise me if anything happens you won’t do anything like that again.”

Stiles nods quietly, unable to say words aloud that he truly wouldn’t mean.

Lydia laughs dryly, understanding the silence for what it was.

“Why did you even come?” Stiles snaps at her.

“I wanted to see if you were ok,” she says bitterly, swiping at her eyes. She blinks, grabbing at her purse, before turning steely eyes on him. “I did just spend sixteen hours tethering you to this world, didn’t I? I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t for nothing.”

Stiles is suddenly reminded of the last time they had a similar conversation, their roles reversed, when Stiles had yelled at her and asked her if she had thought his injuries were meant to hurt him.

_If you die, I will literally go out of my freaking mind._

_Death doesn't happen to you Lydia, It happens to everyone around you, ok? To all the people left standing at your funeral trying to figure out how they're gonna live the rest of their lives without you in it._

 “How did you even get here, anyway?” Stiles asks, instead.

“I came with Deaton. I was with Aidan and Ethan. They tried to go after Jennifer.”

“They’re the good guys now?” he asks in disbelief.

“They saved me,” Lydia nods, shrugging. “They put their lives on the line for me and got really injured because of it. I… I promised Aidan I’d come right back. He needs me.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, surprised at the hurt he felt. He should be used to it by now, right? Was that whole kiss-holding-your-breath thing really just that? Did she really only just want to shock the panic out of him? He knows that she and Aidan were some-type of thing but he had thought, especially with the time they’d spent together recently and the whole _tether_ -thing, that they might be _something._

“I should go,” she tells him, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “I left Cora with them,” she glances over her shoulder, hesitating. “Derek said he would drive me back to the clinic.”

Derek, who’s remained silent in his corner of leather broodiness, suddenly comes to life and lurches after her.

“Hey,” Stiles suddenly brightens, grinning toothily. “Cora’s cured? Go team Hale,” he sticks out his fist towards Derek triumphantly. Derek quirks an eyebrow, glancing at the offending fist bemusedly. Stiles wasn’t sure what to expect – to bump fists back? – but _still._

“I’ve got to go,” Derek says and Stiles figures quirked eyebrows and bemused twitches are the closest thing to a fist bump anyone would get with a Hale.

“So are you going to be the block-head twins alpha now?” Stiles asks, a little put out at Derek’s lack of _anything_. _Hey, I nearly died, you should be throwing me a party._

“Why are you asking him?” Isaac grouses from where he’s draped himself over an arm-chair. His dad’s favourite arm-chair. He’d almost forgotten that he was here and that, coming from an avid observer of Derek’s lurking, was really saying something.  “Shouldn’t you be asking Scott?

He nearly, almost, asks why he is hasn’t _left_ yet.

“What? What does he mean?” Stiles asks instead, directing it at Derek.

“I’ll let Scott explain,” Derek says, before nodding at Lydia. “Lets go.”

Lydia nods and goes to follow him, pausing at the end of the couch. “I’m glad you’re ok, Stiles.”

Stiles nods tiredly, watching them leave, feeling the pulse of the skin stretch across the tender part of his temple. His hand goes up to touch it, but Scott leans forward, and tugs it away. “Don’t. You’ll pull the stitches.”

He frowns because _‘oh, hey… I have stitches?’_ before he suddenly recalls drowsily hearing Melissa say his dad might need them.

He jumps, trying to fight his way out of the scratchy throw, mumbling something nonsensical about his dad.

Scott and his mom easily sandwich him back down between them.

“Dad…” he protests, trying to wiggle away. He already feels his panic sky-rocket, going from pleasantly coddled to sudden deep rooted fear. “Where is he? Oh god… what’s happened? Why’s he not here.”

“He’s fine,” Melissa quickly hushes him, rubbing his arm. “He’s just making you a hot drink.”

There’s a small clatter of noise in the kitchen that Stiles is now only just noticing.

“Doctor’s orders,” Deaton confirms, nodding.

As if on cue, or coming out of hiding, his dad appears in the door with a mug in his hands. He looks cleaner than he did before – he’s obviously had time to have a wash – and has changed his shirt for a clean one.

“Dad!” Stiles starts as he tries to sit up quickly, swinging his feet off Scott. It’s a little too fast for his head, the room spinning, but it soon settles around him. “Are you ok?”

“Hey,” his dad says, pushing him back against the couch. “We’ll talk in a minute. Just have something to drink first.”

His dad hands him a hot chocolate.

“A little bit of milk and sugar,” his dad tells him.

“My favourite,” Stiles looks up at him with a grin, blowing across it.

“Yeah…” his dad says ruefully, placing his palm across Stiles forehead. “But it was more to do with the fact that you practically look transparent. You could probably do with the glucose.”

Scott stands from the couch and allows his dad to take his place. Stiles hands are still a little bit on the shaky side and he’s having trouble keeping all the contents inside the mug as he tries to raise it to his lips. His dad keeps a steady hand around his own to help.

“Easy,” he murmurs at him when Stiles realises he’s thirstier than he first thought and takes a rather big gulp, wincing at the burn. “You’ll just make yourself sick.”

Stiles is nearly three quarters of the way through the mug when Melissa finally releases her hold and squeezes his arm. She nods at the remaining occupants of the room. “Lets give Stiles and his dad some time alone.”

Stiles is grateful for the offer. He’s not sure he wants that emotional shebang laid out for everyone to see. It was bad enough already.

“You’re coming back, right?” Stiles locks eyes with Scott. “You and your mom, I mean. I don’t know about you… but I just feel we should be together for tonight. You _are_ family, after all.”

He doesn’t extend the invitation to Isaac, and really, only a small part feels bad for him (god, he’s really being shitty to him tonight) but since his mother died both Scott and his mom had become extended family, and filled something that he had never had (a brother) and something he would always need (a mother). And as shitty as it was, Isaac didn’t have a place in it, not this particular unit that was close and intimate to Stiles alone.

“Oh…” Scott says, looking as though he felt bad for Isaac for just about the same amount of time as Stiles (Stiles had momentarily forgotten that Isaac was very blatantly stepping on Scott’s toes in the ex-girlfriend territory – he has a brief moment of enjoyment at wondering how alpha Scott could use this to his advantage before realising he was too much of a nice guy to be such a dick to _anyone_ ). They scowl at each other for a few seconds before Isaac relents and shrugs _‘It’s cool man. I’ll just wait for you at home.’_ Scott looks back at Stiles with smile, nodding eagerly. “Sure.”

“We’ll wait outside,” Melissa tells John as she ushers everyone out.

When everyone has finally left, and Stiles has finished with his drink, his dad plucks the mug from his hands and places it on the coffee table.

“Stiles,”

“Are you ok?” Stiles cuts his dad off, hands going for his dad’s shirt.

“I’m fine,” his dad says, catching Stiles errant hands in his own.

“I distinctly remember you getting stabbed,” he clucks at his father, trying to tug his hands away.

“And I’m _fine…_ ” his dad tries to reassure him. He rolls his eyes at him, reaching out and placing a gentle hand against the side of his injured face again before carding his fingers through his hair. “Better than you it would seem. Deaton gave me a few stitches and a course of antibiotics. It doesn’t even look infected.”

“You were _stabbed!_ ” Stiles chokes on the words and pulls away from the touch sharply. “I thought you were _dead.”_ The words are hissed out of him, chest burning.

“But I’m not.”

“But you could have been,” Stiles grinds out, curling his fingers into fists. “That bitch took you and I didn’t know anything. Where you were? Whether you were dead or alive? If she would kill you or not?”

“Is that why you did it?” his dad asks quietly, resting a warm hand on his shoulder. Stiles glances at him sharply with questioning eyes. “Scott told me what you did. What the three of you did.”

“I didn’t want to find your dead body,” Stiles says quietly, looking away. He feels hot tears burn at his eyes.

“I get that,” his dad tells him, squeezing his shoulder. “And I am grateful for what you’ve done for me, but I want you to promise me that if something like that happens again you won’t do that. I’d never be able to live with myself if something happened to you because of me.”

“I can’t do that,” Stiles says. He shakes his head and refuses to look at him.

“Stiles…” his dad starts, voice filled with tension.

“I didn’t do it for you,” Stiles says. His voice feels hoarse and the burning tears finally escape down his face. “I did it for me. I can’t _not_ have you in my life, dad. I _need_ you,” his voice cracks and wavers again before he’s choking down on an aborted sob.

“Oh, kid…” his dad says, suddenly curling his arm around Stiles shaking shoulders and pulling him into his side. Stiles immediately tucks his legs up and curls into him, sniffling into his shirt. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. You opened up to me and I pushed you away.”

“I’m sorry I dragged mom into this,” he says, shaking his head against his dad’s shirt. “That was cruel.”

_mom would have believed me_

It _was_ meant to hurt at the time.

“Yeah, she probably would have,” his dad agrees, carding his fingers through his hair. Stiles feels him lean down and plant a kiss on the top of his head. He’s too old for that type of parental affection but, right now, he really doesn’t care. “I _should_ have.”

“Yep, you _really_ should have,” Stiles huffs, feeling himself being lulled into sleep. “But FYI, if you hadn’t figured it out already, werewolves are kind of unbelievable.”

His dad snorts above him.

“Just so you know,” his dad tells him, tightening his hold. “For FYI purposes; I really need you in my life too.”

“I know,” Stiles admits, fighting the drowsiness. He picks a heavy arm up and pats his dad’s back. “I’ll try and be open about everything else.”

“Try?” his dad asks. Stiles can practically hear the frown on his face.

“It’s all I got,” he argues sleepily.

After a few moments of silence his dad mutters “I’m glad you’re ok, son.”

Stiles softly smiles to himself, not having the energy to give the sentiment back, but considering his earlier reaction and his epic face-plant, he’s pretty sure his dad must know by now that he felt the same.

He snuggles further into the embrace, allowing the lull of sleep to drag him further down, feeling his dad’s arm encircling him.

His last conscious fault before succumbing to the darkness of the night and the safety of the arms around him was that he would never be as strong as he was, and maybe it was the same for his dad, without these open arms.

 

* * *

 

_Run, run, run away_

_Lost, lost, lost my mind_

_Like you to stay_

_Want you to be my prize_

**_(Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Runaway)_ **

****

_~finis~_

 

**Author's Note:**

> The second part of the series will deal with the aftermath of the sacrifice and how it effects Stiles. I had already started on this, with some drafts and a few ideas thrown around, before seeing the 3b preview but from what I've seen it seems to work quite well with what I have planned so far.
> 
> Also, I had enough spare time to make playlist for the series and actually create my own CD. I plan to have this on loop when writing:
> 
> Runaway:  
> Runaway - Yeah Yeah Yeahs  
> Six Degrees of Separation - The Script  
> Laura Palmer - Bastille  
> Get Home - Bastille  
> Everything Will Change - Gavin DeGraw  
> Awake My Soul - Mumford & Sons  
> Giving Up The Gun - Aaron Sprinkle  
> Ships In The Night - (Mat Kearney)  
> Elephant - Alexandra Burke
> 
> The rest of the songs will be added when the 2nd part - entitled River of Lead - is posted. I haven't finished the playlist for the 3rd part yet. 
> 
> Hoped you all enjoyed and I haven't bored you silly.


End file.
